


the last supper

by bleakmidwinter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A Beagle - Freeform, Anal Sex, Argentina, Cannibal Blow Jobs Yahoo, First Kiss, First Time, Interpretation of the End Credits Scene, M/M, Murder, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22194682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Will and Hannibal survive the fall, but Will wants to pay Bedelia one more fatal visit before they escape to Argentina.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 316





	the last supper

After the fall, they are inseparable. 

The first sensation Will feels after his blackout; when he pummels into the icy black water beneath the bluff. Hannibal’s lips on his own. And he isn’t even conscious enough to process it. 

There is an added thrumming against his chest and oxygen tasting of blood forcing its way into his lungs as he feels lips press against his again and again, and then he is coughing up cold, salty, water onto a bed of rocks, shells, and jagged barnacles that dig into the thin fabric of his shirt. His skin is stinging. His heart is hammering. His throat is burning like he'd chugged acid.

Hannibal had been giving him CPR, and as Will’s near violent coughing subsides, his eyes flutter open to see Hannibal collapse beside him. 

As unconsciousness bids Will a farewell, it takes Hannibal in stride. As if Hannibal couldn’t have rested without knowing Will would be safe.

“Han…” Will realizes the instant he attempts to speak that his voice may be out of commission for a while. His throat burns unbearably and the impact of the water is wracking every muscle in his body with a silent unyielding pain.

If they were to die, Will would have needed it to happen on impact. They can’t die like this, on some small cutout of a shore where Hannibal had somehow managed to drag them. He _had_ dragged them to safety. Saved Will and himself. Hannibal is breathing shallowly beside him now, a hand splayed out towards Will. Still bleeding from their altercation with the Dragon. 

Will reaches his own arm out, brushing his fingers against Hannibal’s as painful as the action is. He tries to grip his hand, but he feels unconsciousness tugging at the corners of his eyes, in the way that his head pounds like an ongoing sequence of screams. 

He manages to grab hold of Hannibal’s hand. Finally. It brings a small amount of resolution to their imminent end. Will allows his eyes to close. Together or not at all. He doubts the afterlife to be beautiful without the other to share in the defeat. Nature's great triumph over man.

Will is unsure how long they lie like this, on the edge of their life, until he feels Hannibal being ripped from his grip. His eyes fly open despite the agony. A flood of emotions wrack him until every muscle in his body is turning towards the direction Hannibal has been taken. There is a tall figure dragging Hannibal onto a brown boat. Before he can wrap his mind around the situation, he is being dragged into the boat as well. He strains away from their captor, the grip around his forearm bruising.

There isn’t space in the boat, and his knees touch Hannibal’s when he's dropped to the floor. He's breathing the same cold air as him, but he can reach out and touch his face with his fingers and he does. Traces his lips, his eyelids, the softest parts of him. Will's eyes sting and moisten as if the salt of the ocean hadn't dried him as efficiently as a fruit.

Their saviour climbs into the front of the boat, and begins to row without any preamble. When Will's vision focuses enough, he makes out that she is a lean woman with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. A stance like a warrior. Chiyoh. 

Will could laugh if he didn’t feel like a bag of bones. 

There is a feeling blossoming in his chest, warm and volatile. They will live. His fingers scrape over a cut on Hannibal’s cheek, and Hannibal’s breath hitches in his slumber. Will shifts closer, feeling the impossible satisfaction of this situation. _They will live_. 

* * *

When he wakes, it is to an imposing sun casting its yellow glow over his newly bandaged body. Pain still torments every part of him, but it is not nearly as intense as it was at the bluff. He sits up, testing his own strength.

Painstakingly, he stretches his taut muscles. He hears a crack loud enough to startle him. He groans when he realizes it came from him, cracking the rest of his spine.

 _Fuck_. The ocean might as well have dislocated every bone in his body.

Alone in a king sized bed, he takes his time observing the golden silk sheets. He finds himself in a large bedroom with enormous windows. An image of the house they’d been attacked in the night prior comes to mind. As much as he wants to recall the night they defeated The Dragon and bask in the glory of their mutual becoming, he wishes not to cheapen the memory until he and Hannibal are in some form of a stable recovery.

There is also the added factor that Hannibal may be pissed at him for throwing them off the cliff. He shakes off the doubts crawling up his back like thousands of small spiders.

They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. 

Will is shocked that he's able to stand without wobbling. He feels tiny, sharp, pinpricks shoot through him in his stride, but it does not deter him from exiting the bedroom. 

He fumbles throughout the large, barren space. There are noises coming from the end of the hall, and he moves swiftly towards the door; it is the only one in the hall cracked open just an inch or so.

The empathetic side of himself knows Hannibal is alive. Knows he would have felt it like a livewire through his spine if Hannibal had died. He would have woken to a feeling of emptiness. The rational part of himself, however, acknowledges the likelihood that most any human being would die if they had gone through everything Hannibal had gone through in the night prior. His injuries had been much worse than the ones Will sustained. 

He finds himself in a mindless rush when he reaches the door, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees Hannibal sound asleep, chest rising and falling rhythmically in bed. One step forward and he feels the familiar shape of a gun pressing against his uninjured cheek. He doesn’t flinch; he knows who it is. 

“Long time no see, Chiyoh.” Will moves back so he can look at her. She’s barely aged, any lines in her face betraying only her caution and doubtful nature. 

She doesn’t say a word, and she doesn’t take another step forward. She keeps her gun pointed directly at him, as if she wants him to explain himself for not dying in his sleep.

“How is he?” He asks instead of what Chiyoh wants to hear. 

“Safe. For now.” 

Without intention, he sighs. Will doesn’t need elaboration. If Chiyoh says he’s safe, it means his condition is stable. He’s alive and _will_ live. Chiyoh’s dedication astounds him even now. Her loyalty is incomprehensible. After three years, she still arrived at his aid. 

Her gun remains pointed. 

“Would it make you feel better to throw me off another train?” Will gives a poor imitation of a chuckle, too exhausted for this interaction. To his delight, Chiyoh lowers her gun. Slowly, but decisively. 

“I will stay until he wakes. When he does, I will be gone,” she says. 

“May I ask if you’re planning to kill me?” Will inquires. He thinks he at least deserves to know if he should be on guard. There’s also a small part of him that wants Chiyoh to understand he has no ill intentions towards Hannibal. Not anymore. 

“He spent his last shred of energy reviving you. Consider yourself lucky. I don’t take pleasure in watching such sacrifices go to waste.”

A pause.

"Tell him my debt is paid."

She marches out of the room, her gun to her chest. God knows where she disappears to in such a large place. God knows whose house this even is, one of Chiyoh’s safehouses or Hannibal’s. Or a place they’re just "borrowing" from some undeserving soul. He tries not to think about it. 

Will walks over to the bed and sits beside Hannibal. Despite being shot, amongst other lacerations, Hannibal seems more at peace than he’s ever been. His eyes twitch beneath his eyelids in his sleep, and Will wonders if he’s dreaming about the night before. 

Will feels content, staring down at him. He could think of his life that is lost to him now. Memories that seem so far away compared to the ones he’s making now. He could leave before Hannibal wakes up, and perhaps never hear of him again. If he wanted. Perhaps it should frighten him that he can’t picture a time where he would want that. When what he wants most of all is to reach out and touch the smooth lines of Hannibal’s face. To be here with him. 

Denying himself had lasted years. Years of pretending had cost him intense gratification. Hannibal’s head tilts to the left and a breath abandons his parted lips.

 _Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you?_ Bedelia’s words ring in his ears now. He hasn’t thought of them since. Not until now.

_But do you ache for him?_

“Yes,” Will whispers. 

When Hannibal breathed life into him on the small shore by the bluff, he had been born anew. Born into the man he was meant to become. A part of Hannibal. 

Will can’t control himself, raising a hand to Hannibal’s cheek, brushing the soft skin under his eyes. His skin is golden in the sunlight. 

_I’m yours now_ , he thinks. The part of him that rejected truth and honesty within himself mourns for him. He allows that part of himself mourn. 

Will would have been his in death if the fall had killed them. But, they had survived. Both had experienced a miracle. Separation now, could be their only undoing.

* * *

Hannibal wakes in the night, eyes fluttering open around the same time the clock strikes 1 AM.

Will had spent most of the day in the bedroom when he wasn't eating or taking small breaks to explore the safehouse. It reminds him of the time he'd spent in Abigail's hospital room. He'd run into Chiyoh once, catching her gaze from outside. She had glared at him until he retreated to Hannibal's side once more.

He had redressed Hannibal's bandages only once. 

"Good morning," Will mumbles, exhausted. "Typical you'd wake up right when I was thinking about going to sleep."

Hannibal registers his surroundings, expression shifting only slightly, enough for Will to recognize it as familiarity. He's been here before. 

Familiarity slowly turns into serenity, the longer he stares at Will. Good, no grudges then. 

"You are alive." His voice is raspy with fatigue and a dry throat. He looks eager to speak his mind despite it.

"You are too," Will notes, sounding far too vulnerable for his own liking. He can't help the small tug at the corners of his lips.

There is a comforting silence for a while before it is broken by a door swinging open and closing, sounding like the back door of the house. 

"Chiyoh," Will explains. Hannibal seems to already know. He continues anyway, feeling it necessary. "She said once you woke up, she'd leave. I thought maybe she'd give a farewell or something, though."

Hannibal sits up, wincing. He looks overwhelmingly fond. 

"This is one of the many safe havens she resides in. I'm sure once we're long gone, she'll be back here. I don't believe she'll follow us. Though, Chiyoh is one of the few people I could predict." 

"I'm on that list." Will feels the pinpricks of pleasure in his chest at the unabashed smile this brings Hannibal. 

"Indeed you are." 

Hannibal stands and Will shuffles over to lend a hand. Hannibal shakes his head. "There is no need, Will." 

"Would you like water?" Will asks awkwardly, desperate to be able to offer some form of assistance. 

"If you would be so kind."

When Will returns from the kitchen with a tall glass of ice water, Hannibal has already changed into a very expensive looking pair of golden pajamas. Will hadn't even bothered searching the bureaus and becomes self conscious at his own state of undress. Hannibal seems to notice his apprehension.

"I'm sure Chiyoh didn't want to indignify you by undressing you. At least not entirely. However, I must admit you could use a change of clothes." He eyes the blood stains on his undershirt. Fortunately, the sweatpants are new. Not the underwear, though.

"Yeah, I'm sure that's why." Will grumbles, and hands Hannibal the water. Hannibal chugs it down it like a dog in summer, and licks a few stray droplets off the rim of the glass. Will's throat suddenly feels dry, as if he needs a glass of water as well.

They become starkly aware of each other in a way they haven't since the cliff. Will really wants that glass of water now. 

"There are more than a few elephants in the room," Hannibal admits.

"A whole fucking circus," Will mutters.

As big as the safehouse is, Will feels as if they're both locked in a closet together, the size of a coffin. Seven minutes in Heaven with the Devil himself. He can barely breathe, and judging by the look in Hannibal's eyes, he feels just as trapped.

"I won't insult you by asking you why you did what you did at the cliff," Hannibal tells him. He isn’t angry, his voice shockingly gentle. 

Will nods slowly, his eyes focusing gradually on the middle distance between them. He's not sure he has an answer even for himself about that one. One last whim of his wavering humanity. At least there’s one thing off the table. 

"May I ask however," Hannibal starts and Will doesn't know why his stomach feels like it's on the floor. "Are you satisfied with our survival?"

Will breathes out, and doesn't need to consider his answer. 

"Irrevocably."

There is a minuscule change in the expression on Hannibal's face and he asks, "What do you plan to do?"

Will's eyes dart up to meet Hannibal's. He throws the question back at him. "What are _you_ planning to do? You seem to have answers for everything. What's your prognosis about our situation doctor?"

Hannibal avoids his deflection, calmly placing the empty water glass down on the bureau. "If I were alone and on the run, I would spend a day or two on my recovery, and then carefully find passage out of the country. Go to a country where I have a safehouse, and start over. However, I am not alone, and would very much be interested in what the gentleman in my company would prefer to do. The gentleman in my company who is able to leave at any time. Who is not yet on the run. I am quite amenable." Will doesn't have a moment to even part his lips in the beginnings of a response before Hannibal is adding, "And I am curious to know if this gentleman wishes to remain by my side."

Will should call him a fool. He would have left by now if he had wanted to. Hannibal knows that. He stayed by Hannibal's side most of the day, tending to him, waiting for him. But, Hannibal wants to hear him say it.

He sighs.

"The second I dug my knife into the flesh of the Dragon, I was on the run. The second I tasted blood, I became aware. Fully. Of you, of my...becoming." Will grimaces, a shaky sigh attached to his admission. "I want to keep holding onto my awareness. I can't lie to myself again. Satisfied?" Will knows he is. "I've chosen this. I want whatever life you're willing to give me. You fought tooth and nail for me, and I'm done fighting it. I want this."

Will sucks in a breath before adding, “For good.”

Hannibal's hand is on his cheek then, as if he’d been steeling himself before, strokes gently against his scar and Will wants to dig his nails into something rough. Slowly, his eyes travel up to lock with Hannibal’s who is smiling wide, with pointed teeth. The sated monster. 

If Hannibal were to touch him forever, it wouldn't be enough. Will surprises him by placing his own hand over Hannibal's, welcoming the touch, _encouraging_ it. Three years he waited. Both waited. In a way, he’d been waiting for this for five. Hannibal keeps his hand on him when he says in his low timbre, "My dear Will, you here with me in this new life, is everything I have ever wanted."

The words hit Will as gentle sea foam would lap at every corner and crook of the jagged rocks on the seashore. He tightly curls his fingers around Hannibal’s. 

* * *

Though they still have more to discuss, Hannibal told Will to get rest and Will had reluctantly obeyed, though the rest does wonders for the aches and pains in his body.

He wakes to the scent of breakfast, a blurred mixture of egg and flour and the tang of citrus. It almost feels like it did before he even suspected Hannibal of being the Chesapeake Ripper. When Hannibal would offer him breakfast like a normal, doting friend. When he did not bat an eye at the sausage served on his plate.

A strange part of him still aches for his long lost ignorance. 

He no longer bats an eye when he approaches Hannibal's cooking, but they have been changed since then. Revulsion is no longer in practice. 

Hannibal makes eye contact with him when he enters the kitchen, a lively and warm recognition appearing in the creases of his cheeks. A stranger could never guess he'd been shot a couple days ago. “I had time to make you several options.”

“Crepe, omelette, or...is that oatmeal?” Will points to the bowl that looks like either really large cereal chunks or thinned oatmeal. As he grows closer, he sees slices of yellow fruit laid atop of it. 

“Cinnamon flavored oatmeal cooked at a low temperature, with caramelized banana slices. And a side of raisins and pecans,” Hannibal pulls out a chair for Will. Will takes the bowl. Not much to work with in this house, then.

“If you’re gonna sell it to me like that, I might as well take the oatmeal. I can’t believe you’re trying to cook like this after what happened. You’re above putting an eggo in the microwave?” Will gives a hearty chuckle when Hannibal purses his lips.

“You know I’m a man of taste, Will.” Hannibal turns the stove off and sits beside him, cutting into the crepe, which has strawberry drizzle lathering the powdered outer layer. Will had eaten an apple and some chips yesterday to ease his dull hunger, but now he feels his hunger like a shot to the stomach. Ironic, he supposes. He digs in.

It’s wonderful. As it always is. 

“A man of very _impeccable_ taste,” Will says slowly, around the banana stashed in his cheek. “Working with blood loss that could have killed a horse.”

“In many ways, I surpass the horse then,” Hannibal says with a chipper lilt to his voice. It looks as if he had been waiting for Will to wake to dare take one bite of food.

Everything must be shared, is that it? They are two halves of one whole. 

"You're too much of a morning person for your own good. I couldn't sober you up from the thrill of cooking if I tried."

"I am not a morning person, Will," Hannibal says and before Will can argue, he adds, "I merely bask in the time I am given outside of my sleep cycle."

Will scoffs. "I don't know, I just know I'm always tired until after noon." 

There is a hint of a smile on Hannibal's face.

“Are there plans for today?” Will asks, fork scraping against the side of the bowl as he turns his focus to their imminent future. Anticipation has been bubbling up inside him since he woke up. He wonders where they will go, thinks about what other elephants need to be escorted out of the room as soon as possible.

Would Hannibal ask him to kill?

He almost feels guilty for _not_ feeling guilty. He’ll kill again, and he’ll enjoy doing it. The night on the cliff had been the most euphoric he had ever felt. As much as he’d like to ignore this fact, it is set in stone, ever since he felt his knife plunge into the Dragon’s skin. Hannibal hadn’t asked if he were willing to kill, yesterday. Perhaps he already knows. 

Hannibal contemplates before responding. 

“I want to spend another day healing. We have some time, but it is imperative we leave the country by the end of the week.” 

Three or four days. So soon. For their health, they should be staying in bed for another few weeks, but they don't have the luxury of staying still. Will doesn’t want to waste time, but there are words caught in his throat he can’t find. There's something he's forgetting. 

“Something the matter, Will?”

“Just like that?” Will asks. He takes another bite of oatmeal. 

“Is there some unfinished business you wish to attend to?” Hannibal’s glare betrays his warning. _You can’t say farewell to your family or your dogs. You can’t go back to Wolftrap_. Will knows those things. It is not why he is hesitant. He can’t put his finger on it. 

“There is nothing left for me here,” he says, settling on the finality and simplicity of those words. He doesn’t quite believe them. 

Hannibal knows he’s still searching within himself for another answer, but he doesn’t press the matter. All he says is, “Would you be comfortable leaving tomorrow night if I were to procure the plans?” 

Will nods. They eat the rest of their food before Hannibal retreats to an office space with a computer. Will doesn’t question his process, or where they’ll end up come the beginning of next week. Will hopes it's some place warm. 

The chill in the air has grown quite tiresome. Like a nagging friend who reminds you of your faults. Constant, unrelenting. 

It is the evening when Hannibal joins him again. He sits closely to Will on the couch where he had been reading. Will doesn’t move, prefers their shoulders to brush together when Hannibal hands him a glass of deep red wine. 

“Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian,” Hannibal muses. Will startles until he remembers it’s a line from _Moby Dick_. He sets the book down. 

“Chiyoh’s a fan of the classics?”

“Are you not?” Hannibal counters, avoiding the question. 

Will shakes his head. “I have a place in my heart for Moby Dick. It’s the only memory I have of my mother. The only thing of hers I had with me after she left. I know it was hers because I don’t remember my life without it, and Dad never knew where I'd gotten it. I left my copy back in Wolftrap.”

When Hannibal continues gazing down at him with such an intense fondness, that only a mad man could describe as anything other than love, he takes a deep, stuttering, breath. 

“I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing,” Will quotes. He looks up at Hannibal, not shying away from the gaze and the heat that pools in his stomach in turn. Hannibal lifts a hand to run a thumb under Will’s bottom lip.

“Argentina,” Hannibal says, almost as if he could decipher the question in Will’s recitation. “I should have asked before the plans were final, but I promise you it is a place of warmth and prosperity.” 

“I don’t care much for prosperity, but I do like being warm,” Will mutters, leaning into the touch a little too easily. He’s well aware his eyes are fluttering. Touching had always been his weakness, always starving for it, and always too sensitive to it.

The amount of touch Hannibal gives him is always too much and not enough, simultaneously. He wants to lean in and be absorbed, but he twitches in agony each time he feels the scrape of even a thumb against his bare skin.

“We leave at six noon. Tomorrow.” 

Will feels the urge to scream again when Hannibal stands and leaves the couch. There is a loss of heat, and Will becomes aware of his heart beating against his ribcage like a hummingbird trapped in a shoebox.

Apparently the sparks between them on the cliff hadn't subsided, and had only grown stronger. Will feels his heart burning and erupting over and over again and he feels if he does nothing, he’ll explode.

 _Maybe it's just heartburn_ , he thinks hysterically.

Vague memories of times where he felt the urge to press against Hannibal mid-way through conversations resurface, of the butterflies that had swarmed in his gut, more like moths threatening to pick their way through the sensitive parts of him, when they had in unison devoured the Ortolan Buntings. How close Will had been to giving into Hannibal’s whim and charm when he’d washed the blood clean from his knuckles and praised him like a husband would a loyal wife.

Will downs the wine, having grown a useful tolerance over the last three years. Alcohol drowned out any and all desires he had wanted to forget. But now, he doesn’t want to forget. He just wants his sensitivity to diminish. He wants to be pliant.

The words “Hannibal, where are you going?” slip out when he realizes Hannibal means to leave the room.

Hannibal had been leisurely inching towards the hallway. He turns on his heel and approaches the couch once more, hands tucked behind his back.

“I did not want to presume—”

“Come sit with me,” Will demands gently. “Since when did you stop presuming things,” he adds in a teasing voice when Hannibal waltzes back over like a guilty dog. _Since there is now a chance you may change your mind and leave forever_ , is the unspoken answer. Hannibal sits as close as he had, and Will shifts closer to feel the heat emanating off his skin. 

“I wouldn’t have agreed to run away with you if I knew you’d be trying to avoid me,” Will says, prodding. Hannibal suppresses his amusement. 

“I could never avoid you, Will.” Hannibal grunts suddenly, shifting to lean less on his wound. There is a stabbing urge in Will’s gut to kill Francis Dolarhyde another time. “I merely want to give you your space before we depart.” 

“I’ve had my space for three years,” Will whispers, eyes falling over the shadows the dim lights cast on Hannibal’s face. Irreverently beautiful. “You’ve had your space too. Look what good that did both of us.”

Hannibal nods. Will feels bold.

“May _I_ presume something?”

Hannibal’s eyes lock on his. “Anything Will.”

Instead of saying anything, Will leans forward to close what mere space had been separating them. He presses his lips to Hannibal’s, sparks flying behind his eyelids. Their lips brush and Will flinches, oversensitized from the intensity of the intimacy, drawing back with near timidity only to return with full force. He burns inside when Hannibal takes his face in one broad hand, fingers traveling through his curls to grip the back of his head and keep him close.

The last puzzle piece on their journey. Hannibal parts his lips for a breath, and Will kisses over them, invading the wet sacred space that he’d been denied for too long. 

For a moment, he feels complete. Tipsy warmth bubbling in his mind; Hannibal's calloused hands explore him carefully with a sensual dexterity Will couldn't have imagined kissing Hannibal would be like.

He’d pictured violence, chaos, blood. Not softness. 

When Hannibal kisses the corners of his lips, mouthing through the stubble on his face until he reaches the point where it fades away on his neck and _sucks_ , Will realizes there might be one more puzzle piece that has yet to be placed. He understands it fully when Hannibal’s free hand finds his waist, tugging gently to bring him closer, and a tight needy feeling shoots straight down towards his pelvis.

Fear is another feeling that spikes in his chest, as Hannibal's hand that had been at his neck travels up his thigh faster than he can think.

He wants Hannibal in every way. However, he's never wanted a man before, and suddenly in this dream-like haze, he gives into his nerves, wriggling away.

“Hannibal,” Will whispers, breath hitching when Hannibal does not relent. He kisses and sucks another mark into Will’s neck, like he’s dinner. Prodding fingers find his buckle. “ _Hannibal_ ,” he says again, the syllables elongated and stern, sounding as much as they can like a warning. 

Hannibal looks up, lips pink and wet and Will makes a small wanton noise as he fights not to press back into the heat offered to him.

"I've never…"

"I know," Hannibal pants. Will huffs. He'd been awfully quick with that response. 

"I don't know if I can, well, I'm just," Will stammers. When had he started shaking? Hannibal's hands drift away slowly, and despite the despair at their loss, Will knows he is not retreating. "I'm sorry."

"I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Will." Hannibal says and Will laughs out loud.

"That's the most dishonest you've ever been with me."

Hannibal's nostrils flare. Will wonders if he's smelling him. 

"You are not afraid," Hannibal observes. Will narrows his eyes. He thought he was. Why else would there be a feeling of dread heightening in him alongside the escalation of their intimacy? 

"I'm not afraid you, I thought I was afraid of, just now, sex with a man, and everything." He blushes furiously. "Maybe I'm not, but there's something, uh, I'm not sure."

Hannibal lifts them up to a more comfortable sitting position. He pulls away just enough to give Will the headspace to think. 

Will does think. For a while. Hannibal is remarkably patient. 

It hits him like a boulder after a minute of silence. How could he have forgotten until now? He takes a deep breath. 

“I do have unfinished business here.” 

Hannibal is positively feral. A sudden wild animal. Will is almost amused at the dark expression that casts over his face, thinking everything he’s been waiting for is being ripped from him after barely getting a taste of it. Will makes a mental note to tease him about acting like one of the stray dogs he’d groomed and corralled. 

“Can you change the plans for a later time? Perhaps three days, or two?" He asks. This eases Hannibal slightly, but rigid agitation still contorts every muscle in sight. 

His tone is far too put together when he asks, “What are you planning, Will?” 

“I can’t do _this_ ,” Will gestures between them, to where Hannibal’s hand is now resting motionless on his thigh, and where he’s still gripping Hannibal’s elbow, vice-like, “...without a condition. I want you, but there is something I want first and foremost.” 

Hannibal is simply questioning now. Not judgmental, but boiling over with curiosity. He nods. 

“Bedelia Du Maurier needs to die.” 

Will can't read Hannibal's face. The man is good at putting an indifferent mask on when he wants to. There is a long silence as they stare at each other with thick intensity.

Elaboration. He can do that no problem. 

"She was bluebeard's wife," He explains unsteadily. He's not sure he can explain the sessions he'd forced Bedelia into giving him, nor does he want to so he can avoid the inevitable conversation about Hannibal being in love with him. "She told me not long ago that she would have preferred to be the last."

There is a small glimmer of understanding in Hannibal's eyes.

"You have shared with her what was meant to be mine," Will states, venomless. He holds no grudge against Hannibal for Florence. A small part of him will always harbor resentment towards Abigail's fate, but he had caused it as much as Hannibal had. There is a stifling envy, however, of Bedelia Du Maurier. He hasn't been able to shake it for three years. The rage he felt inside when he and Jack had discovered Bedelia in Florence had nearly boiled over in those weeks. It's boiling over now. 

Hannibal licks his lips.

"Could I not say the same about the individuals you chose to surround yourself with? How they took what was meant to be _mine?_ " Hannibal dares to respond. Will stiffens, anger redirecting like a missile.

"Don't," he warns sharply. "You know perfectly well what I mean. I was supposed to be by your side. I earned a scar and Bedelia earned you. Before we disappear forever, we might as well dispose of what we need to before we don't have the chance."

 _Meat's back on the menu_ , he'd told her. A warning. A promise.

Hannibal grins for a moment, flashing his teeth. "Do you wish for me to kill her, or would you prefer the honor?"

Will feels heady. "I want it to be us. You and me, together. I want her to eat a part of herself at her dining table, while we watch and dine on her as well. I want her to be afraid. I want you and me to kill her together, and then I want you to take me in her bed. Rough, animal-like, I want you to claim me then and only then, do you understand?” 

Hannibal’s eyes glisten. “I’ll change the plans for tomorrow to Friday night.” 

Will grabs him by his shirt and drags him in for a hard kiss on the mouth. He feels he may have just bruised both him and Hannibal, but he doesn’t care. Not only does he want to kill, but he’d been the first to encourage it since the Dragon.

He can feel himself changing, and when Hannibal kisses softly at his neck, as if he is finally allowed to breathe, Will basks in the pool of black he’s slipping into inch by inch. 

* * *

When Will ambushes Bedelia from behind with a chloroform rag in his hand, he experiences the last of the fight in her. She kicks weakly with her heels and attempts a shrill moan, muffled as she drops to the floor. 

“Not so clever,” he whispers, trailing a finger bitterly down her all too-soft cheek. Hannibal is busying himself with locking every door in her home. He returns to the living room, smirking down at Will’s handywork. 

“No time for discussion?” 

“We’ll have plenty of time during dinner,” Will responds curtly. His sarcasm only ever amuses Hannibal, so without preamble, he drags Bedelia out into the hall where they’d laid out a plastic sheet. Here, they work together to carefully remove her left leg. The blood pools on the plastic. When Will reaches bone with the serrated knife he's chosen, Hannibal presses closer to him and helps him dig the knife in. 

A rough slide back and forth, a noise similar to that of nails against a chalkboard. Will wishes Bedelia could be awake to hear it herself.

He can feel Hannibal’s face in the crook of his neck, and he disguises his inhalation with a kiss to Will’s jaw. A shaky chuckle stumbles out of Will. 

“What,” he demands.

“You smell of her.”

“She was clawing everywhere,” Will replies, feeling the knife catch on the last stretchy bit of skin attached to her upper thigh. When the leg drops off, he turns so he can capture Hannibal’s lips with his own. “I’ll smell like you after tonight."

It's more than a promise.

Hannibal is already profoundly aroused. Will can tell because of the way he’s breathing, like an animal yearning to pounce. The blackness in his eyes. He has one hand curled in the fabric of Will’s shirt. As much as he’d like to let Bedelia bleed out and forget the plans entirely, they’ve come too far to give up. They must give Bedelia a proper send off. Something to mark their new life together. 

“What do we do now?” He asks softly, allowing Hannibal to breathe him in again.

“I’ll get the wrap to stop the bleeding, and then we will fold the plastic up so we don’t get blood on the rug.” He stands and does just that. Will's only job is to lift Bedelia’s limp, twitching body off the plastic once her leg is sufficiently wrapped up in thick gauze. 

The pungent scent of blood fills his nose, but it further adds to the drunk feeling that runs through his veins, slowly losing his inhibitions to the thrill of the kill, and the anticipation of Hannibal being his and his alone. 

Perhaps he is mildly jealous by nature, he thinks, as he props a newly one-legged Bedelia up on a dining chair. He pushes her in, finding it humorous how her neck cranes back, limp. She cares just as much about her proper adornment as a member of high society as Hannibal does. To be similar to a lifeless, powerless, ragdoll would surely enrage her beyond words and actions. 

Hannibal had taken the leg wrapped in plastic to the kitchen. Will takes care of utensils, and plates. They truly work as a perfect team, and in no time, there is a steaming leg cooked in clay on the kitchen counter. Hannibal had removed his plastic suit while it had been in the oven, a deep maroon three-piece suit underneath.

“Shall we bring this in?” Hannibal asks. 

Will shoves down a thousand things he wants to say and do. He merely nods, and follows Hannibal into the dining room. Bedelia is beginning to stir.

“Good evening, Bedelia,” Hannibal says smoothly. “It has been a long time.”

Will lifts the vase to give space for the leg to be placed in the middle. He places the vase back down and stands beside Hannibal, suddenly itching for a glass of wine or champagne to occupy his fidgety hands. He whispers this to Hannibal.

Bedelia is seemingly in shock, consciousness returning to her slowly but intensely. Her eyes widen a fraction, and she does not need to look down to realize what is missing. She stares into the middle distance, entirely silent. Remains this way even when Hannibal speaks, once more breaking the silence. 

“How rude of us. We have forgotten to fetch the wine. Excuse us Bedelia, we have much to catch up on when we return.” 

Will cannot take his eyes off of Bedelia as they exit the dining room. He holds back a grin when he sees her leg gone out of the corner of his eye, and the steaming leg on the table juxtaposing the loss. In his life, he has never experienced such a deeply rooted satisfaction as he is experiencing now. When they reach the kitchen, Will grabs Hannibal by the shoulder and spins him around, crowding him into the island.

He kisses him roughly, grabbing feebly at the front of his suit, pressing himself as firmly as he can into Hannibal’s body. 

If there is one thing he has adopted from Hannibal, it is his impulsivity. The horniness has always been an encumbering demon of his own. 

Hannibal maintains an exceptional amount of control, pushing Will gently a few feet back. “Patience, mylimasis,” he whispers. Will wants to bare his teeth at the tenderness. 

“What does that word mean?” Will asks, trying to distract himself from the sharp arousal making him ache and disallowing him from any logical thought processes. 

Hannibal smiles, and continues without responding. Speechless for once in all the time Will has known him. Will watches with a lustful ferocity as Hannibal pours Dom Perignon into the three glasses he’d brought in from the dining room.

“How long do you want this night to drag on?” Hannibal finally asks, handing Will his glass. They remain in place, not yet returning to Bedelia. 

Will can’t bring himself to sound accusatory.

“Am I putting you out?” 

“You misread my meaning,” Hannibal says, a thumb tracing the rim of one of the glasses he’s holding. “How long can you last before you beg me to take you?”

Will’s lips part, and his legs feel weak. 

“Not long then.” Hannibal’s nostrils flare, and Will feels exposed, a sick thought twisting through his head, that perhaps Hannibal can smell his arousal. 

A part of him wishes to protest, but he remains silent, instead opting for complacency. 

“As long as we don’t rush through this. Don’t drag it on to agonizing lengths, but at the same time, I want to see her eat her own leg tonight. And I want her to feel the pain of her death.” Will takes a sip of his wine in the kitchen, perhaps rude not to wait. 

Hannibal’s lips twitch up minutely. “Anything you desire, Will.”

* * *

“Aren’t you both dressed to the nines.” Bedelia words come out in a sluggish fashion. She has one arm draped on the table, fingers moving back and forth against the rim of her wine glass. Her eyes are trained solely on Hannibal.

Will wants her to know he’s just as dangerous. Just as spontaneous and willing to go to dramatic lengths to make sure Bedelia feels as humiliated as she looks. 

He feels a foot nudge him from under the table. The table is long enough that it cannot be passed up as a fluke collision. Hannibal has his eyes on his own glass of wine, sniffing it before taking a languid sip. Another nudge. Will looks down to Hannibal’s hand to see him tapping a finger on his fork.

“You look so lovely yourself, we didn’t wish to embarrass ourselves.” Condescension slides off of Hannibal’s tongue as smooth as water from a duck’s back. 

Bedelia tilts her head in the responsive and equally condescending manner that she’s mastered after all these years of dealing with Hannibal.

Will stands, circles the table, and begins to carve the leg. He discreetly eyes Bedelia from head to toe, wondering what he’s missed. Hannibal wouldn’t have nudged him if there had been no need for alarm. 

When he’s sliding a perfect cut of meat onto his plate, and then Hannibal’s, he notices one of Bedelia’s forks missing from its place. And, the one arm that still lingers suspiciously out of sight.

Hannibal had tapped the fork. 

It amuses Will that she thinks she may have the upperhand. 

“Two heads are better than one, Bedelia,” Will says the words as they come to his mind. He’s a bit fidgety with repressed brutality that yearns desperately to unleash itself. “While Hannibal would have been merciful enough to spare you the embarrassment of confrontation, I am not.” 

It’s the first time Bedelia genuinely bothers to look at him fully. Will ignores the pleased expression he craves to see on Hannibal’s face when he says this so he can maintain this vicious staring contest with the retired psychiatrist. 

“What—”

“Don’t insult me and put the fork back on the table.” 

Will watches her face drop only in the slightest. It takes a few seconds for her to slowly return the fork to its rightful place, her eyelids drooping as if she’s just now feeling the loss of blood. Will looks to Hannibal now who is looking back with such primal devotion that he has to tear his gaze away to focus on his antagonism. 

“As I predicted,” She starts, in her usual lackadaisical tone. Will takes his place and begins digging into the cut of her leg like it’s prime rib, no longer sparing any glances towards his company, “You two are perfect for each other.”

She takes a steadying breath and takes a bite of herself. Will tries not to laugh when guttural satisfaction ripples through him. She did not have to be warned, or threatened. She knew what was coming if she did not eat her cut.

“You are polar opposites, however, you create the same effect whether it is in your destruction or your disparagement. I wonder, Mr. Graham, if you feel in any way discouraged with your situation. Hannibal got what he wanted, despite your best efforts.” 

The small upturn of her lips makes him violent. 

“Did you in any way feel _discouraged_ when you agreed to go to Florence?” Will responds. Bedelia remains even-tempered, taking a sip of her wine. 

“My compliments to the chef,” She shoots at Hannibal. Hannibal smiles brightly, as if they were eating one of his own recipes for pie or eggs benedict, and not leg. 

Will tries not to chug his drink, though it’s tempting. Hannibal had told him in the car that evening that this may occur. They’d hotwired one after thumbing it down on the road. Hannibal had snapped the driver’s neck, Will took his keys and they had been on their way to Bedelia’s home, with only one warning from Hannibal. 

“She may try to sway you from this path as a tactic. Whether it is to make you feel guilty for leaving your friends and family behind, or making it seem like you are losing a game, she may try to turn you against me.”

“Are you telling me to ignore her?” Will had said.

“I am not telling you to do anything.” 

“Bullshit, you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you didn’t want me to ignore it all.” Will had leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, feeling powerful when Hannibal’s hands jerked on the wheel. “You underestimate how badly I want her to _hurt_.” 

Now, when Bedelia says, “It’s a pity. I personally thought you were on your way to redemption. Seems you were weaker than I anticipated,” Will doesn’t ignore her. But, he does not allow himself to feel regret. He translates it into anger, stabbing his knife into the leg in the middle of the table. 

A squelching sound mixes with Bedelia’s gasp which betrays her fear. 

“I was the one who suggested we pay you a visit, Bedelia,” Will confesses. The words feel wonderful as they slip away from him. “I wanted to torture you, and in my mind it was beautiful. What was more beautiful to me was your humiliation. Tomorrow you will be dead and I will be on a flight to Argentina, and before I left I wanted to watch you eat yourself like a fat pig would if they were given the opportunity.” 

Bedelia does look afraid now. Her lips part, nearly trembling. 

“But I am _not_ none the wiser.” 

He can tell she detests his crass way of speaking, she always has. Especially now, with her flesh in his mouth, in Hannibal’s mouth, there is no comfort for her to fall back on. 

No way of escape. She knows she’s finished. Debauched.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” Bedelia turns to Hannibal. “Have I gotten it wrong? Are you his pet now, doing what he says, going by his rules?”

Will nearly bares his teeth.

“Will is his own person. I merely relish in his determination. And, this is his night, not mine. I am having a just as delightful time though, I assure you, Bedelia.” He raises his glass to her and drinks. 

Will sits back down, trying to calm down. 

“This dinner seems more delightful to you than any day we spent together in Florence.” Bedelia reveals. Will tries not to seem too interested, though his ears are burning. “You walked through those days suffering with every step you took, and daily seeing somebody else in my shoes.” 

“I do not regret Florence.” 

“No, but Florence never meant anything to you. Not unless it was with him.” Bedelia speaks as if Will is not in the room, as if this is one of her sessions with Hannibal. 

“You knew that when we left,” Hannibal states it simply. His plate is practically gone, and he looks hungry for more. Will reaches out and carves him more, exchanging a small, intimate glance with him. 

“Yes, I did. Why would a new fling compare when an ex and your renounced surrogate daughter lie in the destruction of your wake thousands of miles away?” 

Bedelia smiles knowing she’s struck a nerve. Will ignores the red flooding every sense in his body, focuses on the reason they’re here.

“It astounds me even now that he did not reach his breaking point and snap your neck,” Will says evenly, in lieu of Hannibal’s silence. 

“Not too astounding,” she says, suddenly pleased with herself. 

“Why is that?”

“He liked the sex.” The response is curt. Offensively short and boorish compared to the harangues she’d been spewing tonight. Will’s throat stings, and he stands up to saunter to the corner of the living room. To add insult to injury, she adds smugly, “And, I think he enjoyed bathing me.”

He can’t look at the table, or Hannibal. Definitely not _her_.

Bedelia huffs a small laugh. “Perhaps he liked that I ate his oysters. And snails.”

Another beat of unbearable silence. 

“Maybe I was just a sufficient substitute. Judging by where we are this very moment, I’d suggest that perhaps I was not a good enough one.” She’s talking to Hannibal now, her scathing tone echoing throughout the room. “You seem much more satisfied with the real thing.” 

She doesn't give him time to respond.

“Tell me, Will.” Will is still trying not to picture Bedelia and Hannibal in the throws of passion. Hannibal wishing it were Will, Bedelia gaining the satisfaction of taming the beast. Bedelia continues. “How is it to be Bluebeard’s wife again?” 

Will sees red, more saturated than before. Before he can blink, he's swerving around, and in only two strides he has her yanked up by her golden hair. She makes a sound like she’s choking on a scream, cut-off by the time Will grabs a knife and slits her throat. The sound echoes in his ears and he stumbles when he tastes blood splatter across his lips. 

Hannibal’s brows shoot up, with a thrilled flash of his teeth as he takes in this result.

“Callous bitch,” Will mutters, looking mournfully down at his new suit.

“I’ll buy you a new one in Argentina,” Hannibal promises as if he can read his mind. “Did you mean to kill her so soon?”

“Are you pissed?” Will grumbles in avoidance, laying Bedelias face down on the table, in her plate that she didn’t finish. Not so elegant.

“There was no outcome I would have preferred. I merely wished for you to be satisfied.” 

“Oh, I’m satisfied,” Will says, voice shaky. “I could think of a few ways I could be more satisfied, though.”

Hannibal places his fork down on the dining table, not even sparing a glance to Bedelia’s corpse. He stares straight into Will’s eyes as he stands.

“Come here,” Will whispers, a smile tugging at his lips as Hannibal circles the table, almost tactile, eyeing Will up and down. When Hannibal is close enough, he pulls him in by his shirt collar, pressing their bodies together. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Will pulls back almost instantly. He rips off his own shirt, stained with blood. “I don’t wanna get anything on your suit.”

“Will, I don’t care,” he assures softly. He allows Will to drop the shirt to the floor before he crowds him into the nearest wall. It’s the most inarticulate phrase he’s ever heard Hannibal say, but it sparks his arousal. “You beautiful, clever boy,” he whispers as he presses harder against Will’s body. 

Will lets out a small moan, circling his arms around Hannibal’s neck, and twitching whenever Hannibal’s fingers brush over a sensitive spot on his exposed skin.

Hannibal kisses him uninhibited, diving in as far as he humanly can for a better taste of Bedelia’s blood. They kiss the way Will thinks people only kiss in the movies, Hannibal sucking at his top lip and Will kissing him everywhere but the center of his lips. Open-mouthed and impossibly wet and _searing_.

“How long have you wanted this?” Will asks, in reverence, eyes fluttering shut while Hannibal devours his neck. 

He can feel a laugh rumble against his skin. 

“Since you told me that eye contact is distracting, that you sometimes get caught up in thinking that the whites of people’s eyes can be too white.” 

Will doesn’t mean to laugh as loud as he does. 

“You’re lying.”

“I did not know the level of desire I held for you until much later, but it is true that in our first encounter, I found you quite irresistible for a reason I could not comprehend.” 

“Oh, _well_ then,” Will remarks, face and chest turning pink as Hannibal works his way down. Hannibal awkwardly leans down to lick over a peaked nipple. Will’s breath hitches. “God.” 

“An eye for an eye,” Hannibal challenges, kissing his stomach as he gets down on his knees. Will momentarily ignores the implication so he can speak properly.

Hannibal is staring up at him expectantly when he answers.

“This is going to sound really bad.” 

"You know that will not deter me."

"When you sent a man to kill me, I pictured killing you with my hands. Beating you, and you were grinning. It's probably the most aroused I've ever felt in my whole life," Will confesses, holding still as he feels Hannibal’s fingers dig into his hips.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, leaning forward to undo Will’s fly button with his teeth. 

“Hannibal!” Will exclaims, and he prods at Hannibal’s shoulders. He’s not sure if he’s encouraging him or not. Hannibal grab the zipper between his sinfully sharp teeth and drags down. The sound is almost as obscene as Bedelia’s throat being sliced.

Will’s head lands in a thud against the wall behind him.

“Hannibal tugs his boxers down, pressing his face into Will’s groin, leaving open mouthed kisses along his shaft. Will holds his breath, hips rocking forward on their own volition. He shoves a fist to his mouth to muffle the moan that is drawn from him when Hannibal slips the head of his cock into his mouth. 

Those lips feel just as heavenly on his cock as they did on his mouth. 

Will doesn’t know what he expected, but to be deepthroated three seconds into his blow job was not one of them. Hannibal takes the entirety of Will’s hard cock in his mouth, nose brushing against his stomach when he pushes down.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Will shouts, hand flying from his mouth to Hannibal’s hair. 

Hannibal scratches at Will’s sides carnivorously and Will realizes when he glances down this is just as intense for him as it is for Will. 

When he bucks into Hannibal’s mouth, he stupidly realizes he’s allowing a cannibal to suck him off. Why that turns him on more, he’ll never understand. When he feels a hint of teeth, he groans, bucking again. Hannibal takes him in greedily, and Will feels his throat contract around his cock multiple times, as if he wishes to swallow, but can’t. 

“Hannibal,” Will pleads, feeling as if he’s about to fall. When one of Hannibal’s hands moves to his ass and squeezes, he pulls up on his hair.

Hannibal makes the sound of a wounded animal as he’s dragged up, but Will pulls him in for a kiss, dragging his own hand over the bulge in Hannibal’s pants. Hannibal closes his eyes and bares his teeth slightly, pressing Will into the wall with the force of his desire. Will parts his lips against Hannibal’s. “I want you to fuck me.”

Hannibal smiles, nods. He tugs Will’s boxers and pants back up just enough so he can scoop him up bridal style. Will screams, laughing suddenly as he attempts to hold onto Hannibal. He’s jostled around on the way to the stairwell, and Hannibal somehow still remains graceful in his transportation, dropping him onto Bedelia’s bed like a groom would do to his newly wed bride. 

They tear off their clothes, tugging at the rims and hems of each others articles fervently. Hannibal is the first to undress entirely, pulling at Will’s pants again. The boxers would have flown out the window if it had been open, landing silently against the glass pane. Will doesn’t have time to make a crack about it when Hannibal is diving back down to take his cock into his mouth.

“Hey, _hey_ —” He grabs at Hannibal’s shoulders, shuddering when he feels brutal suction against the tip. “Hannibal I’m gonna come if you keep, _oh God_ ,” he whimpers. Hannibal grabs Will’s legs and places them around his neck so he’s caged in. 

Will gives up, falling back against the sheets, digging his nails into the pillows at his head. It’s only a few more sucks until Will is convulsing, spilling into Hannibal’s mouth. Of course Hannibal doesn’t allow any drop to go to waste, swallowing everything he’s given, licking his lips where some drops escaped. He laves Will’s softening cock with his tongue, making sure he’s gotten everything before kissing hotly up Will’s thigh.

He’s breathing too hard to hear anything that Hannibal is mumbling, but he thinks it’s in Lithuanian anyway. Hannibal eventually crawls up his body and kisses him roughly into the mattress. Will’s head is buzzing and he feels warm and euphoric when he loosely wraps his arms around Hannibal’s neck.

“I told you to fuck me,” Will is unable to make it sound like a complaint. Hannibal nuzzles him, acting as if he’s not pressing his erection against Will’s leg.

“I was overwhelmed by my need to taste you,” he admits in a way that Will would describe as sheepish if he didn’t know better. 

“Hannibal the cannibal,” Will teases. He reaches down to return the favor, but Hannibal grabs his hand. 

“May I still take you up on your offer?”

Will flushes, imagining it. Getting fucked into the mattress, oversensitive and shouting for more. He nods, entirely too pleased at the prospect. 

Hannibal gets up and retreats into Bedelia’s private bathroom. Will is confused by the sudden abandonment, leaning up on his elbows to watch him dig through the medicine cabinet. He swears something in Lithuanian. “I’ll be right back, Will.” 

He disappears out of the room, and Will can hear him padding down the stairs.

How hilarious it would be if someone were to walk into this house now. See Hannibal naked, roaming around the first floor. A corpse in the dining room, a roasted leg. 

It takes Will an embarrassing amount of time to realize what Hannibal is actually looking for. When he returns with a jar of coconut oil, he realizes it fully. Had never thought of sex with men, or what would be needed. He trusted Hannibal would know. 

He’s nervous now, fleetingly thinking about Hannibal having no issue with hurting him in the past. Hannibal tells him to lie back, and he does, but Hannibal must see his hesitance because he leans down to kiss him sweetly. 

“I’ve done this many times. I promise it will not be painful for you,” Hannibal uncaps the bottle and lathers some on his hands. 

Will turns red. “You’re assuming I’ve never had anything up my ass”

Hannibal smirks. “I know you haven’t.”

“Hey— _oh!_ ” Hannibal wastes no time in rubbing a finger against his hole, pressing the pad of it inside just lightly. Will makes a broken sound when it dips in further. He’s gripping Hannibal’s other arm which rests on his thigh, rubbing circles soothingly into his skin. “That feels so strange.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“No, no, just, strange.”

“It will feel good,” Hannibal promises, pushing his finger in and out, rubbing against his rim on the way out. Will writhes. He knows it will feel good, men wouldn’t have sex this way if it didn’t, but he feels so exposed he could explode. 

It stops being strange after a while, just a new feeling of something going in and out of him. Hannibal adds a second finger, coating his hand in coconut oil again. The scent of coconut isn’t overwhelming, but it surrounds him nonetheless. The second finger stretches him and he lays back against the sheets, willing himself to relax. 

“Are you alright, Will?” Hannibal asks. He nods back.

Hannibal scissors his fingers in and out, twisting suddenly and Will jolts, letting out a small needy sound. He grabs at Hannibal’s arms, “Do that again.” 

“Mhm.” Hannibal hums and twists his fingers a few times, and Will rocks his hips back against his hand, eyes shut tight and he tries to bury his face into the pillows before he makes anymore embarrassing sounds.

Will barely notices a third finger enter him after a while, all three ending up back in the same place, stimulating him from the inside out. He’s never felt anything like this, and impossibly he can feel himself getting hard once more. 

Hannibal kisses at his thigh, a worship-like gesture as he stares up at Will with devotion.

Bedelia is forgotten downstairs, resting on a plate of her own flesh gone cold.

“I swear I’m not usually this horny,” Will mumbles, twisting and turning to get Hannibal to reach that spot one more time. His arm is thrown behind his head in an attempt to grab or paw at any part of the headboard. 

“Are you saying I’m special?” Hannibal smiles with his eyes.

“Shut up, I’m not going to say things you already know, can you please just hurry up, _good god fuck_.” Will moans, back arching, toes curling. Hannibal keeps thrusting into the same spot now, and he loses more of his dignity when he begs, “ _please_ , Hannibal.” 

Hannibal obliges, finally. Will has no clue how he can wait so long, locked up in that cage for three years, waiting until Bedelia was dead, until Will would allow him this. He coats his cock in coconut oil, grimacing. Will can imagine using something that is meant for food during sex isn’t his ideal situation, but he doesn’t want to deny himself this, or Will for that matter. He rubs the head of his cock against Will’s pulsing hole.

Will feels himself trying to draw him in, rocking up against his movements. He never knew his body could yearn this much. 

When Hannibal presses in, they both let out a strangled sound. He presses in slowly. It’s never painful, but the stretch burns slightly. Just enough to add a delightful fire to the sensation. Will tugs at Hannibal’s shoulders, as if that will drag him in deeper.

He rocks his hips, feeling himself sink lower onto him and he moans, craning his neck back. It feels otherworldly. Hannibal leans down over him, sucking and kissing at his neck. Will wraps his arms up under his shoulders, pulling himself closer and scratching down his back when he feels Hannibal pull back and _thrust_. 

Will hadn’t known what to expect by being fucked, let alone by Hannibal Lecter. It’s suddenly something he cannot live without. Being filled up so quickly, and emptied in the next second. Hannibal reaches down, gripping Will more by his lower back and thrusting up so he’s brushing against his prostate with every snap of his hips.

“Harder,” Will says in a moan, allowing himself to be manhandled, fucked into the mattress. He feels limp from his first orgasm, and desperate for his second. 

“Mylimasis,” Hannibal says again, uneven breathing against the crook of Will’s neck. Will grunts as Hannibal quickens his pace, wish he knew any Lithuanian word. Any word at all. 

“What does that mean?” Will repeats, pulling back just enough so he can see Hannibal. The man looks wrecked, hair falling into his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead. Will’s first response is to smile widely, overcome with affection. His second response is to tease. “Is it ‘I’m planning on killing you and eating you right after this?’” 

Hannibal falters in his movements, nostrils flaring and lips twitching in morbid amusement. “Quite a long phrase for such a short word.”

He pulls Will up with him so that Will is sitting on his lap, and they’re nose to nose. Hannibal kisses him, chaste. Too busy gazing into his eyes to give his lips any thought. Will forgets his qualms with eye contact; it’s never been an issue, not with Hannibal.

“It means beloved,” Hannibal reveals quietly. Will suddenly forgets he’s in the middle of having the best sex of his life. Beloved. A word he’d never thought he’d hear Hannibal say out loud to him. Love, for that matter, always seemed to elude their verbal conversation, no matter what depth they found themselves connected. 

Will pushes his forehead against Hannibal’s when Hannibal resumes his thrusts, slower now. Relishing in the moment. Will kisses him in response, trying not to become overwhelmed by the way the word makes him feel. 

“She told me you were in love with me,” Will says breathlessly, feeling closer to Hannibal than he’s ever been. “It was hard for me, I, I didn’t know how to…” 

He buries his face in Hannibal’s skin and groans, feeling the thrusts penetrate him with a newfound pleasure. Hannibal kisses him every place his lips can find, curling a hand down to find Will’s erection.

Will whimpers when he wraps a hand around it, jerking him off roughly. 

“ _H-Hannibal_ ,” he stammers, and his orgasm overtakes him with barely a warning. He’s never felt such stark gratification, grinding against Hannibal’s body. They undulate like animals in heat, and Hannibal bites his neck as he follows close behind, his orgasm hitting with a grunt. They pant as they come down. 

Will kisses him again. “I love you too,” he whispers. 

Hannibal’s eyes are closed, but his lips curve up and he kisses back, twitching one more time as the aftershocks desert them. 

“Take me to our home.” 

* * *

**Three months later.**

Will is washing the dishes when Hannibal returns from the store. He grins, greeting the four-legged creature that bundles in behind him, rushing over with no care in the world.

“Hey little guy c’mere,” Will says, falling to his knees to greet their beagle, Opie. Will agreed with Hannibal when they’d rescued him, that Opie has the floppiest ( and biggest) ears of any beagle either of them have ever seen. 

Opie jumps on his hind legs, not stopping until Will rewards him with a biscuit. 

“Go play you rascal,” Will nudges the dog with his socked foot. Opie barks and runs out into the backyard, barely fitting through the doggy door.

“If we spoil him too much, he’ll be too large to get through there,” Hannibal observes, mildly amused. Will digs through the groceries he brought back. 

“Nice day out?” Will asks. He kisses Hannibal, sidling up next to him. “Thanks for the garlic. You’re going to love the pizza I’m making tonight.”

“I’m sure I will,” Hannibal muses. He’s stopped with the sarcasm. There was only so long he could keep up the act of pretending he didn’t want to eat the food Will makes. They take turns making dinner. Will knows he’s not as efficient at cooking, but he still wanted to. It felt right, maintaining an equal balance in their life living together.

“It _was_ a nice day out,” Hannibal answers as if the question just caught up with him. “However, I noticed the manager being quite rude to a customer. Again.”

Will pauses, placing an apple on the kitchen counter.

“How rude?” He questions, a devious smile curling on his lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be 5k at most oops. Hope you're all enjoying my Hannigram content, don't expect it to stop anytime soon jkashdka.


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